


Enthrall - Chapter 1

by MRReed_27



Category: Chronicle (2012), Jessica Jones (TV), Original Work, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Parents, Broken Families, F/M, Mutant Powers, Punk Rock, Teen Angst, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:26:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MRReed_27/pseuds/MRReed_27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first chapter of my book, Enthrall. Here's the synopsis: After years of being a helpless witness to his alcoholic father’s abuse towards his family, seventeen-year-old Miles Boswell has just about reached his breaking point. He dreams of the day where he can leave everything behind and begin a new life on his own -- that is, until he discovers that he has the ability to control people’s minds. Suddenly, the odds are overwhelmingly in his favor. But what begins as the answer to all of his problems soon causes him to question his every thought when he captures the attention of August Sylvan, who seems to be the girl of his dreams. As someone who has limited experience with girls, Miles can’t help but wonder -- where do his powers end, and where does reality begin? At the same time, he finds himself at constant odds with his morals and his potentially warped sense of justice...and soon discovers that nothing is as simple as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enthrall - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If this story has caught your interest, please leave comments/kudos and I will post more chapters! I'm trying to find my target audience whom I KNOW exists out there!

I’m only seventeen, but hear me out before you just dismiss me as another dumb know-it-all kid. Laugh if you will, but I’ve seen more than most people have by the time they’re finishing college, still trying to figure out who they are. Let me impart some wisdom upon you: The people who have the most satisfying lives are the ones who understand that you can’t control what happens to you on a daily basis. The sooner you accept that, the sooner that you can just relax and let fate take its course. The best thing you can do is to just be aware of your surroundings, and be prepared to take action when the opportunity presents itself.

Take the mosh pit at a punk show, for example. If the pit teaches you nothing else, it’s to expect the unexpected. Watch your head, because a crowdsurfing steel-toed Doc Marten may come crashing into you at any moment. Watch your face, because a fist may come swinging at it from the guy next to you. I know this sounds violent, but what people don’t understand is that being in the pit is actually very cathartic. You can push the hell out of somebody and they welcome it. To get pissed off would be useless and idiotic because the guy that you just pushed was the one who threw himself on to you in the first place. There are rules, of course. If someone falls down, you help him back up before he gets trampled. If someone’s trying to escape, you kindly step aside as well as you can in a mob of people so that he can get out and you can get closer to the band. There’s this overall understanding and camaraderie among everyone there, and even though there’s always going to be some asshole who doesn’t get it, or some dumb girl in heels who got dragged in by her boyfriend, nothing beats the energy of the pit at a good show. Nothing compares to the adrenaline coursing through your veins as soon as the band steps out and the opening chords are played, and the crowd goes insane. If that doesn’t make you feel something, then I feel sorry for you. 

Just right now, I was at a Strung Out show with my friend Mark. We were surrounded by cute punk girls, and life couldn’t get much better. Occasionally I would catch a girl trying to make eye contact with me, but without fail, I would freeze up and immediately look in the other direction. It drives me absolutely crazy, but I can never seem to stop myself. I’m ridiculously shy around girls and the prettier they are, the worse it is. 

Unfortunately, the band had just announced that they were going to be playing their last song --post encore-- and we all collectively groaned. The opening riff from “Matchbook” emanated from the speakers, and we moshed out our last hurrah with every remaining bit of energy we had left. When the song ended, we and several other people held on to that last hope that they’d do another encore, but the auditorium lights came on shortly thereafter and our hopes were crushed.

While walking through the emptying arena at the Palladium you’ll always come across at least one missing shoe, several discarded plastic cups, and an extremely sticky floor. Mark and I were laughing about something as my shoes tried to become one with the ground, and we eventually found our way outside into the surprisingly chilly evening August air. Chilly, but welcoming. I hungrily gulped in the cool breeze that served such a stark contrast to the humid, recycled air inside the venue. This was our last show before school started up again, which was bittersweet, but I knew that there would be more throughout the year as well. As long as I wasn’t failing my classes, I was pretty much allowed to do whatever I wanted to do. As we walked down the street to where my car was parked, some guy selling t-shirts was motioning for us to look at him as he waved them in the air. 

“Hey, wanna buy a shirt? All proceeds go to the band,” he claimed. I glanced at him as quickly as I looked away and kept walking, shaking my head. Yeah, right. Some random guy selling bootleg shirts on the street is going to kick everything he makes back to the band. I’m not stupid. And if I’ve realized anything else about people in my seventeen years on this planet, it’s that 95% of them are full of shit. People like to tell you anything just to make you think or feel a certain way. Life revolves around manipulation. Take my parents, for example. My dad, Roger, is probably one of the most gullible people on the planet. He will spread any kind of ridiculous nonsense that someone else convinced him into believing to anyone else who will listen, as long as it makes him sound important. Before Y2K, he heard from one of his stupid friends that all of the grocery stores were going to be closed for weeks after the shift into the new year because the computers were all going to crash and no one would be able to buy anything. So my dad, in all of his idiotic glory, made my mom go to the store to buy countless weeks’ worth of toilet paper, groceries, toothpaste, and anything else he thought that we would have an immediate need for. He based this decision solely on the words of one uneducated comment that he took for a fact. Needless to say, it didn’t take long to figure out that on New Year’s morning, everything was exactly as it had always been, and the milk had already turned sour. 

Which explains a lot about my family — things turning sour, that is. There was a time where I may have been proud to be a Boswell. It would have been back when I was five, but still, there may have been a time. Back before I knew the truth about my dad. Back before I knew that my mom always just took his shit, and has been taking it this whole time, and has never tried to remove herself from the situation. It may be because she never wanted to break our family up, but seriously...is our current situation really all that much better? I guess I don’t really have much to complain about considering I’m not the one that’s getting my ass beat every time I say something wrong or forget to buy beer, but she is my mom. I do love her…even if I don’t respect her. 

My family and I live in the San Fernando Valley, in Reseda to be more specific, which is about 40 miles north of Los Angeles, in Southern California. People who don’t live here consider it to be somewhat of a shithole, which it probably is compared to other areas of California, but I don’t think it’s all that bad. I’ve lived here all my life, and my only real complaint is that it gets as hot as hell here in the summer, but I spend most of my time hiding out in my room anyway.

And that’s the thing that’s funny about being around the same place and the same people for extended periods of time. You begin to get used to anything. You adapt. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be miserable. 

So despite my wishes of miraculously waking up one morning and realizing that I belong to another family, it has not happened thus far and I instead have learned to adapt. I avoid my family as much as I can. I listen to music that conveniently, my parents hate, but that’s not why I listen to it. I listen to it because it makes me feel alive. The lyrics feel like they’ve been written from my own heart. I go to shows and am infused by the energy that is churned out from the pit. Music is my life. It’s what allows me to go on each day. And when I’m not listening to music, I read, anything I can get my hands on that talks about subversive thinking, and about people who have done so much with the little that they have been provided. I refuse to end up like my parents. When I was little, things like this didn’t matter, but now that I’m practically an adult, it’s all that I can think about. I know that my parents are wrong. I know that people can be better. And I will be better.

I think my little brother Blaine is still in that oblivious phase that I used to be in when I was younger, although sometimes when he comes into my room in the middle of the night after he hears them fighting, I see a flicker of understanding in his eye when he wants to climb into bed with me. He’s eleven, and way older than I was when I first understood what was going on, but I’m also way more observant than Blaine has ever been. Blaine’s too concerned about what’s on TV or where his Transformers have gone, while I was always paying attention to the things that were going on around me.

That’s how I learned that my dad was an alcoholic in the first place, not like he makes any effort to hide it now. It was when I noticed that his personality would _change_ , from the man he was when he left in the morning, to the man he would become when he arrived home. Roger in the morning was grumpy, which was no big surprise, but he was also alert. He read the newspaper. He would drink his coffee and eat the breakfast that my mother had made him, and would actually speak to her in a normal tone of voice. When he saw me, he would pat me on the head and ask me how school was going. But Roger when he got home was a completely different person. He was angry, irritable, unstable. His breath reeked of some sort of offensive odor, and he often had difficulty walking straight. He would go off on my mother for the stupidest things, like that a certain pair of underwear hadn’t been washed yet, and she would just let him scream at her. He would do it to me too, but I quickly learned to stay out of my father’s way when he got home. I knew that something was off, but I just didn’t really know _what_. I saw something in a movie once about evil twins and how they looked alike but they acted differently, and I used to think that maybe _my_ dad had an evil twin that he traded places with throughout the day. It was the only solution that really made any sense to me at the time, until the day that my dad sent me out to his truck to get his cigarettes that he had left in there. I was about eight years old, and scared of my dad, but proud to be able to hold the keys to his truck and do something for him. 

When I opened the truck door and climbed inside, I didn’t immediately find his cigarettes. There were tons of empty fast food cups; two in his drink holder and quite a few tossed and crumpled up on the floor as well. His truck looked like my mother would never allow our house to look. I thought that my dad would probably get in a lot of trouble if my mom saw how it looked in there. I got on the floor and tried peering under the seats to see if I could find the cigarettes like that, but what I found instead was something quite interesting all on its own. I shoved aside a pile of papers under the seat and pulled out a clear, empty bottle. It was about the size and shape of a photograph, with a label that I was unfamiliar with but looked like something that belonged in that section of 7-11 where kids weren’t supposed to be. Not in the magazine rack, but next to the sodas. I opened the cap and smelled the inside of the bottle, quickly recapping it as I wrinkled up my nose in disgust. It was the same stench that was on my dad’s breath. I shoved it back under the seat, replacing the pile of papers as best as I could before I continued my original task. I uncovered about two more bottles until I finally found my dad’s stupid cigarettes stuck in the crease of the seat. I still didn’t fully understand the connection, but it all started to make sense. Every time my dad smelled like what was in the bottle, he acted like a jerk. Otherwise, he was fine. I never told my dad or my mom about what I had found in his truck, mainly because I had seen my dad hit my mom before for accusing him of being drunk and I didn’t really want a similar response. I just kept it to myself, a silent hatred forming for my father that has done nothing but fester over the years. He may have once been a good person, a good husband, a good father, I don’t know. I don’t really care.

So that pretty much sums up my home life, as exciting as it all sounds. But the great thing is that the fun doesn’t stop there. When I’m not at home, I have to continue to put up with people’s shit at school. I must have been a terrible person in a past life, ‘cause believe me, I’m paying for it now. There are, however, some positive points. I have a best friend named Mark Young who is practically the only person I’ll even put up with these days. He likes the same kind of music that I do, he’s hilarious, and we just get each other. I’ve been friends with him since the seventh grade, and I tell him everything. His family is more traditional and normal than mine is, but he’s still a good listener when I need him to be. It’s beginning to sound like I’m in love with him, so I think I’ll just stop with the Mark praise for now. 

I also _kind of_ have a girlfriend. Her name is Aimee, and man...I don’t know what to call her. What we have is very physical, just let me say, and we really have nothing in common other than that. I wouldn’t necessarily refer to her as a “booty call”, because the lunch benches at school aren’t really conducive to lovemaking and at any rate, try as I might, she won’t sleep with me, but she’s great for everything other than that. If I want someone to make out with, or maybe just a female presence, I know who to look for. She’s an attractive girl, and relatively smart, but we never really meshed in a way that would make for a successful relationship. She plays volleyball and is very involved in that, and I care more about listening to music and going to shows. And the thing that’s weird is she won’t tell anybody about me and doesn’t even really like being seen with me. We go to the same school, we’re in the same grade, we even share a class together, but she would never dare come hang out with us at lunch or even make a point to go somewhere with me in public. I feel like I’m always looking for some kind of way to break it off with her, but when it all comes down to it, it’s nice to know that I have someone, even if she’s just a pseudo-girlfriend. 

Fast forward about two weeks and it’s the beginning of the school year, and all of the typical bullshit is in full force. The cliques are all together, people’s schedules are all screwed up, and the food is just as terrible as it’s always been. Predictable, frustrating, and pointless, yet here we are all together again. Even in September, the sweltering hot days of a San Fernando Valley summer are present everywhere you go, nearly peeling the paint off the walls of the classrooms. I was in my first period, tiny beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead as I dreamed of air-conditioning, only to come back to reality and remember that I go to school in a middle class area of the Valley. The best our school could do is to provide each classroom with a heavy-duty fan. Conversely, the snotty ass schools in Encino and Sherman Oaks were probably enjoying the finer points of affluence, pulling on a light jacket and watching the waves of heat reverberating off of the windows as the soft hum of central cooling kicked back on. And then here I am, wishing I could just break social norms and pull my shirt off and throw it across the room to try to alleviate the heat swarming my body in this proverbial sweat shop.

“Boswell?” 

I was snapped back to reality when I heard my U.S. Government teacher, Mr. Somerset, call my name.

“Here,” I replied.

“Yes, Mr. Boswell, we’ve already established that. On this particular incidence, I was hoping that you could answer the question that I posed upon the class.”

Oops, guess it wasn’t roll call after all. His quip was met with a few giggles from my classmates, particularly those of them who don’t like me. And believe me, there are quite a few, even though I have never quite discovered why. 

“He’s probably daydreaming about killing someone,” a familiar voice jeered, only loud enough for those around him and myself to hear. It was Scott Campbell, enemy #1 on my list. Of course, I had to end up in the same class that he did. I remembered walking into the class on the first day of school and seeing him in there. I pleaded with Mr. Somerset to let me change periods but he refused, stating that the other classes were already full. I felt like if I had pushed a little more, he would have given in, but I didn’t want to start the year by pissing him off. I begrudgingly took my seat on that first day, and now my life has been a living hell during this period. 

“If I had to live your superficial life, my first wish would be to meet someone like me,” I replied to his comment, and he looked slightly confused as if trying to figure it out as Mr. Somerset regained control of the classroom.

“Mr. Boswell, instead of telling Mr. Campbell the answer I’d rather you addressed the entire class,” he said with an edge, knowing damn well that we were not exchanging answers. 

“I apologize, Mr. Somerset, I’m afraid I missed the question. Could you repeat it please?” I asked politely.

“I was interested in knowing if you could tell us what differentiates a Democrat from a Republican,” he repeated in exasperation, clearly frustrated. I felt slightly guilty for this, as I liked Mr. Somerset. He didn’t automatically dismiss me for my appearance as many teachers seemed to do. 

“Well that’s easy. Democrats have liberal standards that allow them to accept others and their differences, while Republicans are stuffy, conservative money-grubbers who just want to make sure that their own kind are taken care of,” I replied matter-of-factly, hoping that he would be pleased with that answer. 

“That’s an...interesting observation. Miss Daniels, can you tell us another difference between --” Mr. Somerset began, but was cut off by the bell signaling the end of class and the shuffle of sneakers as the students began collecting their belongings to move on to their next destination. 

“Read the first two sections of chapter two tonight, and Mr. Boswell, please see me before you leave,” Mr. Somerset called over the din of the room, met with a collective “ooooh” as if I were in trouble. He waited until all of the students had left the room before he addressed me. 

“Miles, you seem like a smart kid, and you apparently have no problem with expressing your opinions, yet you seem to have a problem with some of the other students. Why do you think that is?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes as he placed his hands in the pockets of his crisply pressed khaki slacks. He looked like he had walked out of a Dockers ad every day, and he stood about 6’1” with a medium build. My guess was that he was about 35 and probably not married, or at least he never wears a ring. The only reason I knew that was because the female students around me were always talking about it, and about how hot he was. 

“I’m not really sure, sir, it just seems to be the story of my life,” I shrugged, though truthfully, I did have a slight inclination as to why they treated me differently. I didn’t look “conventional.” I didn’t try to fit in with what was expected of me. I smoothed back a longish strand of hair that fell in my eyes and refused to be tamed because Blaine had used all of the gel as a substitute for glue on his science project. My brother is an idiot.

Mr. Somerset studied me quietly for a moment or so, looking in my eyes as if for an answer. “Sometimes, I believe that some kids will pick on others simply because they don’t understand them, or are maybe even afraid of them. Does that sound like a viable reason to you?” he asked, trying to be helpful. 

“Yeah, I guess so. I gotta go, Ms. Atwater gets pretty unreasonable if you show up late to her class,” I informed him, motioning towards the door. 

“Of course, be on your way then. But Miles, if you ever want to talk or anything, don’t be afraid to come to me, okay?”

“Sure, and thanks, Mr. Somerset,” I said as I tried to turn up the corners for my lips into a smile, half-hearted as it was, and walked out into the waves of heat that greeted me outside the classroom door. I appreciated his gesture, but no one except Mark really understood me, and I didn’t expect Mr. Somerset to be any kind of an exception. I managed to slip into Ms. Atwater’s class right as the bell rang. Just another typical day. 

After school, I waited for Mark to get out of band practice. He played the drums in the school marching band, which I’ve reminded him time and time again is as nerdy as you can get, but he doesn’t care. He seems to like it for some reason. I waited on the benches where Aimee and I usually met in the hopes that she would have time for me today. It was pathetic, really, yet here I was. I pulled out some homework to pass the time and before I knew it, she was deftly sliding onto the bench next to me. I blamed her athletic dexterity for my inability to even notice her approach. Her long, sandy blonde hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she had on her signature powder blue sweatpants and tank top that she frequently changed into after practice. I had just recently begun to notice how much her hazel eyes complemented the smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her.

She was adorable, yes. But sensitive to my feelings, she was not. After she leaned in to kiss me, she wrinkled up her nose in distaste. 

“Ew...could you chew some gum or something?” she asked hopefully. I knew that she was doing her best version of trying to be nice about it, but damn, way to make someone feel unwanted.

“Yeah, sure...sorry...” I apologized, searching through my backpack until I found a stick of gum. I obediently popped it into my mouth, chewing for a minute or two until I felt like my mouth was fit for her kissing pleasure. I leaned in and kissed her, long and slow, letting my lips linger for a bit before I pulled away. Yup. The sting from her comment had already melted away.

“Much better,” she smiled, coming in to meet my lips again as we kissed for a few minutes, but she would never relax enough to get too into the moment. Because that would actually allow her to enjoy my presence or something, which would be unacceptable. I resented her inability to let me past her barriers, but I still appreciated the little that she managed to grant me. Was this normal? Oh, well. I could worry about it later.

In a surprising move, she climbed into my lap, straddling me as she strategically placed herself right on top of an ideal location. Well, this was new...and welcomed...and in _cred_ ibly sexy. I started thinking that maybe this was it, maybe she was going to let me take her into the bathroom or something and let me have my way with her, maybe _this_ was the day. And I was _thisclose_ to having sex with Aimee Caldwell when I had to say the stupidest thing I had ever said in my life. 

“Aimee?” I asked, looking deep into her eyes. “Would you ever want to actually, like, go _out_ with me or something?” 

I know, what the hell was wrong with me? Was I an idiot? Yes, I supposed I was. A stupid, lust-filled idiot, who just wanted a girl who liked him for who he was while at the same time using him for his body. But the strange thing was, she didn’t immediately say no, and this incident was what first alerted me to the realization that something weird was going on with me. Something different, and altogether unexplainable. 

“Yeah, sure,” she replied, but she didn’t seem herself. She said it almost like she was in a trance. The twinkle that was usually in her eyes looked glazed over.

“Really?” I asked excitedly, a grin spreading across my face.

“Wait, what? No,” she shook her head, almost as if she were trying to wake herself up. “No, I can’t.”

“But you just said--” I protested.

“I know, but I don’t know why I said that,” she explained, confusion written across her face. “I can’t date you, Miles. I have too much going on. Which reminds me, I have a ton of homework I should be working on.” And with that, she expertly plucked herself off of me and picked up her bag and left. 

Yes, I was disappointed that I blew my chance, of course. But at the same time, I was dumbstruck by what had just happened with Aimee. One minute she had agreed to what I said, and the next she had no idea why she had said it. Was she on something? No, I doubted that she would risk her position on the team for something like that. What, then, could it be? 

I sat wallowing in self-pity for the next twenty minutes or so until Mark got out of band practice and found me. I didn’t really think about it much more until I got home later on and had an incident with my little brother. 

I was blasting my music, sketching in my notebook, when I became aware of my bedroom door opening slightly. I looked over to find Blaine and his friend Tyler peeking in, stifling giggles. 

“And here’s the scariest freak of all at the zoo!” he announced, throwing my door open as he and Tyler exploded into laughter. “Watch out, don’t get too close! He bites!” 

Tyler shrieked in mock horror as Blaine laughed. I stared at them dryly. 

“Blaine, leave me alone,” I said, looking at him seriously. My heart skipped a beat as I watched his face take on the same blank stare that Aimee’s face had earlier, and he dutifully escorted himself out of my room as Tyler trailed behind him. And with that, they were gone.

I swallowed hard as I looked around in confusion. My brother. My annoying, defiant, hard-headed little brother just listened to something that I told him to do. Even though I didn’t recall a time in which I may have fallen asleep, I literally pinched myself to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Was he just playing a joke on me? That wouldn’t be totally out of character for him. I waited to see if he would come back, but he never did. 

Why was this happening?

**Author's Note:**

> If this story has caught your interest, please leave comments/kudos and I will post more chapters! I'm trying to find my target audience whom I KNOW exists out there!


End file.
